


beachfront

by naktoms



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, Female Jack, Gen, Origin Story Kind Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-09-24 22:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9790817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naktoms/pseuds/naktoms
Summary: A brief history of Jeremy Dooley's life of crime.





	

**Author's Note:**

> *poses*  
> hi i havent posted anything since september. tfw depression + college apps hit u  
> i was readin some fahc fics last night and i got Them Feelz so here's this. rushed, incoherent, just how i like it
> 
> kudos + comments are appreciated! i hope u enjoy!!!! \o/

There is a very peculiar feeling that comes with having your name and face on a Most Wanted list. Jeremy can only compare it to the same feeling he used to get when he would stay up past his bedtime playing video games, all his lights turned off and sound muted, but still with some unshakable feeling that his mother was about to throw open the door and shout at him to go to bed.

Except, well, if the police ever throw open his door, it won’t be to lecture him about the value of a good night’s rest. It’ll be to snap cuffs around his wrists.

 

It started this way: in Los Santos Customs, mask on his face and gloves on his hands, spray painting a flame pattern onto the gas tank of a motorcycle. It started this way: hiding contraband for one Geoff Ramsey in the saddlebags of said motorcycle while it was in the shop. It started this way: said Geoff Ramsey pushing an envelope into his hand, stacks of hundreds inside, with a wink and a smile and a _thanks, kid_.

Jeremy didn’t mean to become a criminal, but when you start hiding illegalities for Los Santos’ most powerful crime lord, it’s kind of inevitable.

 

Jeremy is checking the work of one of his peers when he hears the bell to the front door _ding_ , signalling someone’s arrival. He doesn’t pay much mind to it until he hears a voice ask for _Jeremy Dooley_ , and, yep, that’s me, _hello_.

Jeremy makes his way to the front of the shop, wiping his dirty hands on a grease rag as he goes. His heart jumps in his chest when he sees the tall, masked man standing on the other side of the counter. Jeremy’s boss looks reasonably spooked.

“Uh, hey, what can I do for you?” Jeremy asks, trying to make his voice as cheery as possible. In sharp contrast, his thoughts are running a mile a minute, full of _oh boy, has Ramsey decided to dispose of me?_

The masked man hands Jeremy a slip of paper with a slight nod. “Tomorrow,” he says, and then turns around and leaves.

Jeremy takes a deep breath, fixes his boss with a look, and shrugs very decidedly. His boss doesn’t question it.

 

On the slip of paper: a printout of a location shown on Google Maps, up the coastline, on an empty stretch of beach. It puts Jeremy’s nerves on the fritz, now _really_ thinking Geoff is going to dispose of him quietly. Outlive your usefulness, you get ghosted. Jeremy knows that. Everyone that lives in Los Santos knows that.

But, Jeremy goes, because what good would it do to stay home out of fear? Geoff will catch up to him, sooner or later, and his brains will be laying on the ground either way. Bite the bullet, so they say.

Geoff is there at the beach, standing in front of a big black SUV. Jeremy can just barely make out faces behind the tinted windows, presumably the rest of Geoff’s crew, but Geoff is the only one outside of the vehicle. Maybe that’s a good sign. Jeremy’s hands are shaking when he switches off the ignition, opens his car door, walks up to Geoff Ramsey.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Dooley,” Geoff says, something nonchalant but somewhat poignant in his voice. “Are you ready to switch careers?”

And Jeremy eloquently responds with, “ _Uhhhhhhhhhhhhh_ , what?”

Geoff’s grin threatens to split his face. “I’m offering you a spot in my crew, if you want it. You’re quiet, kind, and packing some pretty nice biceps, y’know? Even just lifting crates would make you some money.”

Jeremy thinks his heart is either going to stop entirely, or burst out of his chest. “You-- I-- okay, you want me to-- _what_?”

Geoff laughs, pats Jeremy on the shoulder. “Think about it, kid. Becoming a career felon is a hard decision for some people. I’ll stop by next week to pick up my stash, so in any case, see you soon!”

Geoff gets in the SUV, and Jeremy catches a glimpse of the rest of his crew: freckles, sunglasses high on nose bridges, uncombed hair, scars, leather. Then the door shuts, and the car pulls away, leaving Jeremy with the wind in his hair and the scent of the ocean in his nose.

 

So.

“If I tell you something that could get me thrown in jail, do you promise not to freak out on me?”

“ _What_ ,” Matt responds, getting his on-screen character murdered when he whips around to look at Jeremy, who is currently standing in the kitchen behind him.

“ _Well_ , do you?” Jeremy prods, fiddling with the tab of his Coke can.

Matt gestures wildly, stuttering, grasping at words. “Well, I-- I need more than just that! What kind of ‘thrown in jail’? Like, did you kill someone or something?!”

“ _No_ , no, I didn’t-- no! I just, uh. So, y’know--” and then Jeremy rehashes the past few months of hiding cocaine in the trunks of cars while he works on them.

“Huh,” Matt responds blandly, a far more lackluster reply than Jeremy was expecting. “Are you going to become a felon now?”

“I-- I think so?” Jeremy stays quiet for a second. Jeremy finally opens his Coke, takes a long drink, considers. “I’m going to join Geoff Ramsey’s crew.”

Matt stays quiet for a second. Matt maintains eye contact, rests his elbow on the back of the couch, considers. “Okay.”

“That’s it? Really? _Okay_?”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” Matt replies indignantly. “Am I supposed to immediately call the cops or something?”

“I told you because I wanted some kind of deep advice!”

“You’re expecting deep advice from _me_!”

“That’s true, you’re right!” Jeremy is left with a smile on his face, and Matt returns it. Jeremy returns to the couch at last, leaning heavily into the back of it. “God, Matt, when did I decide to become a criminal?”

“Uh, when Geoff Ramsey started handing you three thousand dollars every two weeks for keeping his stash safe?”

“Right.”

“Do you, dude,” Matt says with a note of finality, returning to his video game. Jeremy returns to worrying.

 

Geoff reclaims his cocaine. Jeremy gets paid. Geoff smiles, something sort of lazy yet interested, and says, “So?”

“So,” Jeremy replies, tucking the envelope of money into his waistband, “yeah.”

“Yeah?” Geoff repeats, word lifting at the end, a question. Hopeful, excited.

Jeremy nods resolutely. “Sure. Like you said, even liftin’ crates helps. So, yeah.”

Geoff claps Jeremy on the shoulder, squeezing just this side of too tightly, lazy smile morphing into a grin. “Great. Was hopin’ you would. We’ll get you to doin’ something soon, okay?”

Jeremy smiles, nervous, feels like a child again. “Alright. Thanks, Mr. Ramsey.”

“Oh, no, Dooley, it’s _Geoff_ now.”

Jeremy laughs through his nose and grins when he says, “Thanks, _Geoff_.”

 

The first one he meets is Michael. Jeremy has been entrusted with helping them haul some particularly humongous crates of weapons, since it is a relatively low-danger, low-cost-if-Jeremy-ruins-it sorta thing. Michael was going to do it alone, and makes sure Jeremy knows it.

Jeremy’s first impression of Michael is this: recklessness barely held together, seams bursting with the need to _do_ something, _be_ something. He always has something to talk about and always has to be talking with his hands. Most of the things he talks about involve the other crew members, and Jeremy catches onto some names and files them away.

Michael is motivated, determined to pull his weight. Jeremy vows to be like him while he works for this crew.

(And comes to the conclusion later that, now he’s in, he will never be out.)

Predictably, the job goes off without a hitch. No cops, no enemies, no danger. Just Jeremy, a few hundred pounds of ammunition, and Michael’s boyish, lilting voice.

Geoff asks, “How did it go?” and Jeremy is thrilled to respond with, “Great.”

 

Next, there is Gavin. Jeremy, at first, thinks that he and Michael are something of an item-- all Michael has ever talked about has, in some way, had something to do with Gavin, and now talking to the man himself he finds that the reverse is also true. Gavin is dripping with wealth and pomp and circumstance, and he likes it that way.

Jeremy meets Gavin by entering Geoff’s house, and Gavin is simply _there_ , for no discernable reason, drinking a beer and all made up like he’s going somewhere. Maybe that’s his default state of existence.

Gavin throws an arm around Jeremy’s shoulders, leaning down slightly to get on eye level with him, and says: “Nice to meet you, J-Doolz.”

So, Jeremy likes him.

Geoff wants to discuss Jeremy’s involvement with their armory, cataloguing weapons and ammo as they come and go, and Jeremy is fine with it. Gavin is also fine with it, and informs Jeremy that he will be visiting him in the armory to zest up his life. Jeremy doesn’t doubt it.

 

The thing is, the first day he enters the armory, he finds Geoff’s masked messenger.

“Take the mask off, you’re in our damn HQ,” Geoff says, thrown over his shoulder as he walks over to pull a thick binder off of a shelf, no doubt their inventory.

The man reluctantly pushes his mask onto the top of his head, and Jeremy studies his face curiously. A pattern is painted on the man’s face in red, white, and black, but beyond that there are scars and bright blue eyes. He looks tired, and says nothing.

“Here you go,” Geoff says, letting the binder fall heavy on the table in the middle of the large room. “Familiarize yourself with it all, then you can get to work. That’s Ryan, by the way, he’ll help you out in your first few months. Stuff’s difficult, y’know.”

Geoff exits, and Jeremy can’t say that he loves the idea of being alone with Ryan. In hindsight, Jeremy also doesn’t love working with some of the people at Los Santos Customs, so maybe the same principle applies here. Jeremy smiles, opens the binder and says, “Let’s get to it.”

 

The last person he meets is Jack. She is short, burly, red-haired and heavily freckled, and really reminds him of his mom with her natural air of authority. He meets her on his way out of the armory one night, finds her heating up coffee from earlier that day.

“Oh-- hey,” Jeremy says, maybe a little awkward, voice maybe a little too loud for the silence.

She turns slowly, expression not unpleasant but not quite welcoming, either. “Hey,” she replies, temperate, before she turns again to get her coffee from the microwave. “Coffee?”

“Sure,” Jeremy says, moving closer so he can get it himself. Instead, Jack gets a mug from the top cabinet and does it herself. “Oh, thanks.”

Jack smiles, then. “No problem.” Silence, for a moment. Jack shifts so she is leaning against the counter. “Y’know, it’s been a real long time since we’ve had someone new. I’m glad you’re around.”

Jeremy smiles, sipping his too-hot coffee. “Thanks. I’m glad to be around.”

 

Time passes, and there are a few fundamental truths Jeremy learns about the Fake AH crew.

One: they work better together than alone. Each of them, even Jeremy himself, are skilled in their own rights, but what good is Gavin’s smooth talking if not for Ryan’s brute force to back it up? Or what good is all of Geoff’s planning without Jack’s immense knowledge of the Los Santos area and driving ability? Or, even, what good is Jeremy’s heft if he has nothing (no one) to protect?

Two, and a related fact: the Fake AH crew is an item. Maybe not romantically, but they are a package deal. Cross any of them, and you’ve got a letter from Geoff Ramsey in the mail, detailing where, when, and how badly you should screw yourself. Cheat any of them, and you have metaphorical torches and pitchforks coming for you. _Hurt_ any of them, god forbid, and you have metaphorical targets painted on your back, and metaphorical and literal sniper lasers trained on you from all angles.

And three: Jeremy has never felt more at home. Maybe it’s the feeling of reckless freedom, wind whipping through his dark hair, hands wrapped around the grip of a gun, sirens in the distance making the hair at the nape of his neck bristle-- maybe it’s the feeling of camaraderie, of Jack’s hands smoothing his hair down, of Geoff bumping his shoulder good-naturedly, of Gavin jumping onto his back with a squawk. Maybe it’s Michael’s grinning face, or Ryan’s knowing winks, or just-- all of it, all of them, welcoming some kid who used to do body work into their empire of crime.

 

But, the fourth truth that Jeremy learns is that some things are hard to forget. It is hard to forget a policeman’s head exploding into a spray of red, or the feeling of a bullet grazing his thigh, or his heart pounding in his chest, adrenaline-rushed, head buzzing with excitement and uncertainty and _fear_.

Jeremy is always afraid, now. Sirens in the distant, policemen walking on the sidewalk below his apartment building, people making eye contact with him while on their phones. Sudden movements, sudden sounds, sideways glances, offhand remarks. Everyone is out to get him, and it is overwhelming.

And, even though he has only known them for a bare few months, sometimes his crew is the only place he can find solace. He will sit beside Geoff on the couch and Geoff will lay his hand over Jeremy’s, and Jack will sit on the arm of the couch and put her arm around Jeremy’s shoulders, and eventually Ryan will sit on Geoff’s other side and Gavin will sit in Geoff’s lap with his legs across Jeremy’s and Michael will unceremoniously plop himself in the middle of it all and it feels so _right_. He feels so safe amongst the people who made him a felon.

 

Geoff tells Jeremy to pick an alias.

“Alias,” Jeremy repeats, a little drily. “That wasn’t in the contract, was it?”

“Well, it’s important to your _identity_ ,” and this is punctuated with a clenched fist, a grin on Geoff’s face. “I am a man of many faces. Ramsey, Kingpin, the Big G--”

“--I severely doubt that anyone calls you the Big G--”

“-- _Anyway_ ,” Geoff says pointedly, louder to drown out Jeremy. “It’s important. So, think about it.”

So, Jeremy does. For all of five minutes. “Rimmy Tim.”

Geoff snorts so hard he almost blows his whiskey all over his desk. “ _What does that even mean_ ,” he wheezes as he recovers.

“I dunno,” Jeremy replies, with a smile. “Sounds great, though, right?”

Geoff is cackling now, signature hyena laugh, echoing in his prim office. “I love it, dude.”

 

A year passes. Jeremy quits his day job under the guise of returning to Boston, but in reality he is still right here. He is gone to his boss, and his old co-workers, however, and now his hair is dyed bright purple and he wears a purple and orange mask and he is _someone else_.

So.

“Time to plan a heist, buddy!” Geoff says happily, throwing an arm around Jeremy’s shoulders. Jeremy feels himself tense.

“Uh, what?” Jeremy responds.

“It’s the final initiation! Everyone’s planned one, and executed one, with varying levels of success.” Geoff makes a wild gesture of _whatever, though_. “So, good luck. Think of it as a final exam in school, dude.”

So, Jeremy does, and he takes it very seriously. Which is why when he presents them with such code names as _Asshole Baguette_ and _Water Choo Choo_ , he can just barely keep his face straight, even as his crew (his friends, his family) bursts into laughter.

It is simple. Intercept an incoming private plane, maybe carrying drugs, maybe carrying family heirlooms, maybe carrying a load of cow manure. Steal the cargo. Leave. It goes off without a hitch and there are shouts of “Monster Truck, come in!” and “Scary Butt watch _out for the rocks_ \--!!” over Jeremy’s earpiece.

Jeremy is so at home.

 

Now, Jeremy’s time is measured in _did I go to Geoff’s penthouse today_ or _did I have dinner with Gavin and Michael today_ or _did I actually sleep in my own bed last night, or was I wedged between Jack and Ryan_.

(And, most days, there is no place he would rather be than between two or more bodies, someone’s hand lazily trailing up his thigh, someone’s face pressed against the back of his neck, someone mumbling about needing to go piss.)

(Most days, there is no place he would rather be than in a gritty diner that smells like bacon grease and Windex, watching Gavin and Michael fight over what dessert to order, gazing at them almost dreamily.)

(Most days, there is no place he would rather be than following Geoff around his penthouse, listening as Geoff tells him countless stories of how he has lived and almost died, how he has built this empire with his own two hands, and how lonely it could be at the top without all of them.)

Jeremy belongs. Jeremy belongs in their bedrooms, and in their kitchens, and in their arms, and he belongs on the Most Wanted list beside all of their names (aliases), and he belongs in policemen’s conversation and mothers’ warnings, _stay away from those Fakes_.

Jeremy stands on the beach where he was first recruited, wind in his hair and the scent of the ocean in his nose. This time, his crew is standing beside him, and Michael’s fingers are laced through his, and Ryan’s arm is around his shoulders.

The sun dips below the horizon, and they all go home.


End file.
